Gull Island (35 page)

‘All right, I’ll come.’

She regretted the words as soon as Kate had left but knew she had to go through with it. If they failed to make any bridges she needn’t ever see her again. It was that thought she clung to as the day approached.

Richard was pleased when she told him but played it down and was matter-of-fact about the whole thing, knowing that a wrong word could make her change her mind. As the hours passed, she became more and more nervous. The day before she and her mother were to meet, she decided, on impulse, to go and talk to Auntie Molly Carey. She’d say she didn’t know what to wear. Yes, that would do for an excuse to talk to her.

Driving down to the house near Red Rock Bay, she expected Mrs Carey to be alone. But the living room was full. She heard voices before she had reached for the knocker. Richard answered the door and after kissing her, said, ‘Kate, Idris and the girls are here.’

‘Then I won’t stay. I only wanted a chat with your mam. It will keep.’ They exchanged a few words, a brief kiss and parted.

As she walked back to the car, Rosita was stopped by Hattie stepping out in front of her. ‘Can we talk for a minute?’ Hattie said and, without waiting for a reply, she got into the car and turned to stare at Rosita. ‘I know who you are,’ she said. ‘Bursting to tell you I’ve been, for weeks, but I wanted us to be alone.’

‘Oh,’ was all Rosita could manage. Somehow Hattie discovering her secret made her meeting with her mother less attractive.

‘I’ve got a bit of a problem, see, and I thought, you being a woman of the world, like, you’ll advise me.’

‘Hattie, I don’t know you. To offer advice to someone you don’t know is asking for trouble. You and I would tackle a problem in an entirely different way. Now, if you don’t mind I’d rather you talk to someone else. I must go, I really am busy and—’

‘Always busy, rushing here and there. Must be great having a life of such importance.’

There was no envy in the words. Her face showed genuine admiration. Cautiously, expecting the subject to be the affair with Idris, Rosita said, ‘I’m not the one to help you.’

‘Yes, you are. Following your rules I was. Going all out for what I wanted, just like you said, so you’re a bit responsible, see.’

‘What?’

‘Well, it’s like this, see. I’m going to have a baby and, well, I don’t know what to do about it. I thought you, being so worldly and everything, you’d help me make up my mind.’

‘Make up your mind about what?’ Caution deepened. She wondered if she were physically strong enough to push her overweight half-sister from the car, and decided she wasn’t.

‘I don’t know whether to have the baby or not,’ Hattie continued, smiling. She seemed oblivious of Rosita’s growing anger.

‘I don’t want to hear this!’

‘You don’t have to have the baby, I know that. There’s plenty of choice. I’ve got to think about what’s best for me.’

‘If you’re thinking about an abortion then I don’t want to hear! Do you understand? Go to a backstreet
Gwrach
and murder your child if you must, but don’t talk to me!’ Rosita’s voice was warningly low but Hattie was blissfully unaware of the distress she was causing.

‘Get rid of it? I had thought of that. Having a baby would spoil my life quite a bit. It wouldn’t be much fun having to drag a child around with me everywhere I went, would it? Me not being married an’ all.’

‘I think you should go! Now, this minute!’ Rosita saw an image of her mother talking exactly the same way as Hattie was now and all her
unhappiness
was rekindled in a way it hadn’t been for years.

Hattie chattered on, oblivious of Rosita’s growing pain and anger, her silence convincing her she was talking to an interested and admiring
audience
of one. ‘The man, the father, like, he won’t marry me. At least, I don’t think he will. So the sensible thing would be to lose it and try and forget it ever happened. Get on with the rest of my life. Don’t you think that’s best for me?’

‘That’s between you and your conscience,’ a trembling Rosita managed to say.

‘Of course I could have the baby, then get it adopted. Or fostered might be better!’ She looked as though the idea had just occurred. ‘Then,’ she went on, ‘one day, when I’m older I could find her and—’

Rosita leaned across, opened the door and asked her to leave, giving her a fierce but ineffectual push. It was clearly Idris’s baby and choking misery as well as compassion for Kate, whom she had grown to like very much, made it impossible to listen to any more.

More importantly, Hattie had confirmed the reason she hadn’t wanted to see her mother all these years. Hattie was exactly the same type as Barbara, thinking the same thoughts as when Barbara had discovered she – Rosita – was on the way. Rosita was shaking as she imagined her mother discussing whether or not to allow her to live and if she did, then whether it might be nice to let someone bring her up and return her when all the problems had faded. History was repeating itself.

She used both hands and pushed a protesting Hattie from the car and drove off, tears stinging her eyes, her throat threatening to burst with
held-back
sobs.

Around the corner she stopped and allowed the tears to fall. How could she ever meet her mother with anything but hatred? Barbara’s own daughter was growing up exactly the same as her mother had been:
calculating
, callous and self-centred. She closed her eyes and saw in her mind a kaleidoscope of memories, mostly of Richard, showing him at various stages of his life, growing from a boy to a man. She opened her handbag and took out the faded and creased photograph of Bernard Stock, her father. At least she didn’t carry the blood of the harsh and unkind farmer, Graham Prothero.

Starting the engine again, she felt isolated from everything; unreal,
invisible
and completely alone. She knew how her mother must have felt about her; she had been unwanted, a nuisance, a burden to be discarded as soon as possible. Hattie’s attitude was the same as Barbara’s had been. She had no right to be alive. She didn’t belong to anyone or anywhere. If only she could drive non-stop until she had left everything behind again, just like when she had run away from the children’s home and met Miss Grainger. Perhaps it would work again but this time she would emerge as an
independent
woman with no memories to hold her down and prevent her from being happy.

She drove out of town to the quiet beach near Gull Island and stepped out onto the rocky shore. The tide was far out and her feet took her onto the seaweed-slimed causeway towards the island without thought. Her mind was still ringing with the words spoken by Hattie and which, in her distress, she imagined spoken thirty-four years before by her own mother.

Slipping and sliding, cutting her legs on sharp rocks and barnacles, she felt nothing, although blood ran down her legs and gathered in her shoes. The sun was long gone, leaving a darkening sky and making way for a storm. Clouds rushed towards her, approaching from the west, carrying moisture from the wide expanse of the Atlantic ocean. But her
surroundings
were irrelevant; unseen, unfelt and no longer of any importance.

The wind, a forerunner of the approaching storm, lifted her jacket and touched her skin through her undergarments, but she disregarded the chill. Dark swirling water began to fill the space around the island and deepen the pools. Fish and small crustaceans eagerly searched the replenishing tide for food and Rosita walked on without reducing or increasing her speed. The whole journey was a dream.

When she was a few yards from the island shore, the tide deepened and with added strength it sucked and pulled at her legs. It seemed determined to force her out into the wicked race of water coming at speed around the rocky outcrop of land, where she would be immediately out of her depth and in waters so irresistible she would be helpless to choose her own destiny.

She didn’t care; nothing mattered any more. Her eyes were staring but seeing nothing. The spray had covered her glasses with an opaqueness that inhibited her sight but she didn’t notice. Yet, there was, deep within her, some instinctive seed of survival that forced her to deny the greedy water its prize, and pull herself towards safety. She held on to the jagged rocks and tore her hands as the water tried to dislodge her. Straining every muscle, she battled against the enormous force of the sea and inch by inch pulled herself towards land.

When she eventually dragged herself out onto the beach, she was
waist-deep
in water and the waves touching the rocks and bouncing in every direction leapt and frolicked and soaked her completely. She was exhausted and crawled to lay on the sand until she felt the tide touching her feet. Then instinct prevailed once more and she crawled higher up the beach and stopped when she reached the reedy grass on the higher ground.

Cold, wet and without food, she was alone and no one knew where to find her. She wasn’t worried. It simply didn’t matter.

L
UKE SPENT SEVERAL
days each week travelling to sales and book fairs and other shops, buying stock or collecting pre-ordered items, but when the weather was good and he was at home, he often went to the cottage straight from the bookshop. He usually rang his housekeeper before mid-afternoon so she would know whether or not to prepare a meal for him. There were no other arrangements necessary.

On the day Rosita talked to Hattie, he had arrived at the beach near Gull Island early and parked his car out of sight at the back of the cottage. He walked for a while then, as he sensed the approach of the storm, he
gathered
driftwood for the fire and prepared for a cosy evening in with his books. Even in mid summer, a fire was friendly company.

He didn’t see the Anglia arrive or see Rosita’s staggering walk across the rocky neck of land to the island. While he sprawled in front of a roaring fire, a drink at his elbow and a book in his hand, he had no thought of there being anyone out on the storm-swept protuberance of land only yards from where he idled the hours away.

The storm was a violent one. As he sat and read, Luke was constantly aware of it as things began to roll about outside the cottage and
occasionally
bang with a suddenness that made him start. Once he went out to rescue a bin that was rolling first one way then another and threatened to go on all night. Outside, the night was black, with rain coming down in solid torrents and blanking out everything beyond his nose. He was soaked in the few moments it took to anchor the bin. He paused though, and looked towards the turbulent water and the island. Both were unseen; only memory told him they were there.

It was almost midnight when he stretched, considered setting off back to Cardiff, then changed his mind and decided to stay the night. The weather was really wild, the wind pausing now and then before lashing at the walls in increased fury. More unseen objects were rolled about before its angry breath. Better to stay where he was, warm and
comfortable
, rather than risk driving through the lanes and perhaps meet a fallen
tree, or worse, be hit by one. Better to rise early for the six-mile drive to the shop.

He liked the sound of a storm when he was inside. The cottage was old but solidly built and he could laugh at the wind, locked away from its power, cheating it of its intention to do harm. He thought of the people who were out in it, seamen most of all, and policemen and emergency
services
, and he was thankful.

Before he settled into bed he stood by the window and looked out over the sea. The island was invisible in the darkness apart from the fluorescent white of angry waves as they reached the beach. Tomorrow, he thought idly, would be a good day for collecting driftwood.

Rosita struggled to find protection from the waves that were breaking with increasing force over the cliffs of the island. She had to move although the effort was daunting. Every time she rose to her knees, the wind pushed at her and once succeeded in rolling her over with a casualness that was
terrifying
. The noise was deafening, an orchestra of ululating wails, sudden slamming, weird howls that sounded animal-like and a whispering,
threatening
drone. The fury of movement and sound convinced her that this was a night she wouldn’t survive.

She dragged herself to where a slight overhang of rock gave at least the presence of shelter and cursed herself for her stupidity. Her clothes were soaked and she huddled miserably against the rock face and tried to pretend they were not. ‘Richard,’ she sobbed. ‘Where are you?’

It was impossible to sleep with the wind slamming and threatening to move even the solid rock against which she sheltered. She wondered if Luke were in the cottage and thought not. It was usually weekends when he came. The reminder made her shiver with increased panic as she realized there were hours before morning gave even a slight hope of rescue. I am alone, she thought, engulfed with melancholy. No one even knows where I am. Too weak to walk back across the causeway. How can I hope for rescue?

Idris was not a happy man. For a while it had been fun to have an affair with Hattie but things were turning sour. Kate had guessed and was
threatening
to leave him. That would never do. He needed Kate and he didn’t want to be parted from Lynne and Helen. He would have to tell Hattie goodbye and suggest she find somewhere else to live. It was over and he hoped she would be as willing to end it as she had been to begin it.

He had always courted danger in his love-life. The imminent threat of discovery had been the spice he needed to fully enjoy any illicit
relationship
. The most exciting had been Hattie. Being Kate’s sister was enough at
the beginning; the enormity of the idea, the danger it encompassed, had kept him awake night after night until he had approached her and found her willing.

Then risking making love to her in the house while everyone thought he was alone, while his family were in London. Creeping about and ducking under windows as they moved about from room to room, exaggerating the dread when someone called and Hattie had to run, giggling, her plump body clad only in a towel, up the stairs.

Best of all was the evening they had made love in the kitchen, while Kate was walking back to the shop to find her handbag. Listening for her return and holding Hattie in his arms until the very last moment, when Kate touched the lock with her key. That had been fantastic!

He was waiting for Hattie now. Kate was out and they were hoping for one of their joyous sessions. He decided they would make love for the last time before he told her it must end, but she came in with an expression on her face that knocked his romantic approach for six.

‘Idris, I’m going to have a baby,’ she blurted out as she opened the door.

‘Bloody hell, Hattie! You could have told me gently, not shot it at me like that!’

‘Sorry, but I’ve been trying to say something for days and, well, it’s a hard thing to tell anyone, isn’t it?’

‘What will you do?’

‘What are
we
going to do, surely?’ she replied, looking at him with those dark eyes he had once thought attractive and now seemed dull and unpleasant.

‘Sorry, love, but I won’t leave Kate and the girls. If you tell her about me I’ll deny it. You can’t prove anything, we’ve been too careful for that. Today I was going to tell you “goodbye”, anyway, and ask you to find somewhere else to live.’

‘Idris! You don’t mean that!’

‘Damned right I do. It was fun, mind. I can’t deny that. You were a lot of fun, but that’s all it was. If you weren’t careful enough to avoid this mess, well, I’m sorry but it isn’t my mess – it’s yours.’ On impulse, suddenly remembering some cash he had in his pocket, intended to pay a large bill for Richard, which he had forgotten to do, he said, ‘I can give you some money.’

She stood and stared into space as though in a trance. He took a roll of crisp white fivers from his pocket and held them out to her. They belonged to Richard but he’d get over that little problem somehow.

‘You mean you won’t leave Kate and marry me? Or even share a part of your life with me?’

‘That was never on the cards and you know it, so don’t start any fancy nonsense with me.’ He was still speaking pleasantly, his tone the same as when they had shared intimate moments.

‘What will I do?’

‘Go and see your mother, I suppose. First you ought to get a place to live. I want you out of here as soon as possible. There’s always some
advertisements
in the window of Rosita’s shop. Why don’t you stroll up there now and see if there’s anything you fancy? You’ve got money – that’s better than you expected, isn’t it?’

‘Then it’s all over? Everything?’

‘You knew it couldn’t last, Hattie. We both enjoyed it and now it’s time to end it.’ He attempted to kiss her but she pushed him away with surprising vehemence and ran from the house.

Her thoughts were in turmoil as she walked the street, battling against the fearsome wind, careless of the torrential downpour. She tried to consider how to deal with the frightening prospect of being an unmarried mother. The storm reflected her mood. There was a raging storm both outside her and within.

The shame was just a part of it, although that was bad enough. Heads would turn as she passed and she would catch sight of shared glances and disapproving nods. She’d be used as an example to make other girls aware of the dangers of loving too well and too soon. How would she cope with it all?

Hattie wasn’t one for looking further than the present. Enjoyment was fleeting and to be savoured to the full. If she had considered where the affair with Idris was taking her, she would have believed he would stand by her, tell the world they were in love, not just lovers. After all, she must mean more to him than Kate or he wouldn’t have started an affair in the first place, she reasoned – incorrectly.

She needed a man, a man who would marry her, but how could she find one now, in this state? Thoughts of all the chances she had missed while she was sharing Idris with his wife made fear change to anger, and calmly, coldly, she decided on the best course to take. The first step was to talk to Rosita again. A woman of the world, she’d know how to deal with the dilemma. She was unaware that as she was thinking of her, Rosita was in danger of losing her life in the storm that raged around them both.

At the school shop the next morning, there was a queue of angry customers waiting for Rosita to open. Among the first was Monty and after ten minutes had passed and she still hadn’t appeared, he knocked on the door of a neighbour who sometimes helped out. She had a spare key and at
Monty’s request, went up to find the flat empty. Soon the customers went off with their purchases and Monty, who had noted the absence of her car, was watching the road anxiously.

What could have happened? Rosita would have made arrangements if she had intended to be delayed. Efficiency was important to her; she wasn’t the kind to forget something as important as opening the shop on time. When half an hour had passed, he rang Kate. She knew nothing and, running in growing fear, he went to find Richard.

Richard tried his mother, then after several abortive enquiries, he rang the police at Monty’s urging. ‘It might be a false alarm, Richard, but if it isn’t we’re wasting precious minutes.’ He had been aware of Rosita’s absence longer than Richard and his fears had grown at a faster rate.

It wasn’t until Monty pointed out that although it was only seven o’clock in the morning, Rosita was already an hour late opening the shop, and she might have been missing all night, that Richard realized how worrying it was. Then, learning that her flat was empty and her car wasn’t to be found, he felt the churning of real ice-cold panic.

He went back to the office to liaise with Monty and between them they phoned or visited everyone they could think of who would know where she might have gone. It didn’t take very long; the list of her friends was not enormous. She was always too busy working to make a lot of friends.

‘What about Luke?’ Monty suggested. ‘Could she have gone there?’

‘Unlikely. He lives in Cardiff. She would have said if she planned to visit him and I’d have gone too – he’s my friend as well, remember.’

‘But he has a cottage near?’

‘Yes, but – Dammit, it’s worth a try.’ Glad of something to do, some purpose to take away the feeling of impotent frustration and rapidly growing fear, Richard threw himself into the van and drove off.

Rosita had managed to sleep a little but was fully awake long before the queue had formed outside the school shop. She had never been so cold. Huddled against the unyielding rock, she tightened the flimsy jacket around her shoulders, watching for the first rim of light to appear on the horizon. The early darkness, with its promise to imminent change, took her back in memory to the farm.

She remembered getting up on frosty mornings and going into the barns to feed the animals and remembered how glad she had been of their warm bodies and the breath that floated from their mouths and made pictures in the still air. She could have grown to like the farm, if her mother had supported her and stopped Graham from hitting her.

There were rare occasions when Graham had taken her with him onto the hills to check on the sheep. She had liked that and had taken an interest in what he was doing, young though she had been at the time. She
remembered
wanting to please him, make him like her as much as he liked Kate and Hattie, but some devil inside her refused to let her reveal it. The battle between wanting him to like her and the imp that showed only her worst side went on within her.

The worst side always won. Trying to punish her mother and Graham had only hurt herself; she must have known that, but had been too young to deal with it. Perhaps, she mused, if Auntie Molly Carey had been around, things would have been different. Richard’s mam was one of the few people she could always talk to.

She became aware of company. Hundreds of gulls had settled on the sheltered side of the island during the night and now the winds had eased, they were cackling and calling, preparing to leave. They rose in groups of a dozen or so at a time, joining the rest wheeling around her, creating a deafening hullabaloo, before setting off across the still-turbulent waters in search of food.

The grass was shining in the pre-dawn light and rabbits were grazing quietly around her. She squeaked with her mouth to coax them closer but they ignored her and went on feeding.

She had to get up and walk back to the beach as soon as the waters parted. If anyone were to see her, she would have to get to the most likely spot
to
be seen. The saddest thing was, no one would miss her until morning and then it would only be a line of disgruntled customers wanting their ‘twenty fags and my paper, love’. What I want is a bath and a cup of tea, she thought miserably. Ben Gunn, she remembered, had wanted cheese when he had been rescued from that mythical Treasure Island.